He doesn’t go near Mum. ‘Bye,’ he says, raising his hand, rather flatly, as if unsure of what comes next.

‘Ready?’ Archie says. He opens the car door for his sister, as he always does. ‘I’l be back soon, Louisa,’ he says. ‘Sort out the rest.’

‘Thanks,’ Louisa says, her voice muffled again; and it’s strange, I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s true, there’s an awkwardness between them. Whereas the Bowler Hat gets to strol around carefree, and what he did that summer was much worse, and half of them – Mum, Archie, Guy –

both my grandparents – know it. I sigh. That sums the whole crazy situation up, real y. I mean, I know Archie can be annoying, but he’s OK. He’s Jay’s dad, after al . He must have only just got back from dropping Arvind off, and here he is, driving us back to almost exactly where he’s just been.

‘Hop in, Natasha.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling a rush of gratitude towards him, and I climb into the back. As we drive off I swivel round in my seat, just as I used to when I was smal , to catch one last glimpse of the house, its white curves set against the sloping green and the sea in the background. In the front, Archie and Mum are chattering about something together, laughing, as if their spirits have been lifted already by going. I realise that, what with everything, I haven’t said goodbye to the house, goodbye to Summercove for ever.

Then it occurs to me that actual y, I have.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Just after seven the next morning, we pul in to Paddington. It is another beautiful spring day. Soft sunshine floods into the old, familiar station as Mum and I get off the train and stand awkwardly on the platform.

We look blearily at each other as the crowds recede. I swing my bag over my shoulder and she smiles at me, and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear.

‘Darling Nat,’ she says. ‘My clever girl.’

We’re nodding at each other. We’ve made it. We’ve come out the other side. I feel as though I’ve been fighting my way through the darkness for a long time, the whole of the last year. Perhaps longer, when I think about it, as if my life had gone the wrong direction, with no input from me. The way Mum’s did when Cecily died.

She grips my hand with her long, smooth fingers, so tight she’s almost pinching it. She is sort of wild, her eyes are huge.

I pat her shoulder. ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Shal we – do you want to go and get some breakfast? I know a nice place not far from here, by the canal.’

She’s nodding. ‘We could . . . talk,’ I say, rol ing my eyes, hoping she knows I don’t like it much either, but that it’d be nice to chat. ‘Just . . .

catch up and stuff.’

Mum opens her mouth, smiling at the same time. And then she says, ‘Oh! . . . Yes. I’d – Yes, wel , I’d love to, darling, but I can’t.’

‘Oh. I thought you were – never mind, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Jean-Luc rang me early this morning,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘His wife’s left him and he’s in a terrible state. He just happens to have a booking for the River Café for lunch! So he’s taking me. I real y should get home and make myself presentable.’ Her smile is stil bright, optimistic, sunny and a little scary. ‘But it’s a lovely idea, darling.’ She grasps my hand again. ‘Maybe some other time, hm?’

‘Yes,’ I say, looking at her, into her clear green eyes so like her own mother’s, so like mine. ‘Some other time.’

‘Which way are you . . . ?’ She points towards the main concourse.

‘I’m—’ I point behind me, towards the Hammersmith & City line.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Yes, wel , I’m getting the District . . .’ We are stil pointing in different directions. ‘Wel , I’d better run,’ Mum says. She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ she says, and she is dashing off down the platform, and I watch her go, and turn and climb the stairs to the Tube, the same stairs I ran down two months ago to catch this very same train, the one that would take me back to Summercove for Granny’s funeral.

I sit on the Tube as it rattles gently east, away from the station, away from Mum, towards the centre of London and another day. I don’t know when I’m going to see her again; she has made the parameters very clear, and after everything that’s happened, that she’s been through, I know it’s fine. I see Louisa hurrying off . . . Mum, hurrying off . . . I see myself saying goodbye to Arvind, packing up my marriage. And just as I think I’m alone, pretty much alone, apart from Jay, but without the rest of my family, a thought strikes me.

I cannot believe I haven’t seen it before.

I stand up abruptly in the crowded Tube. The doors are opening at King’s Cross. Why didn’t I think of it earlier? Why didn’t I see it? I run through the crowds, the same faceless sea of people hurrying from one place to another, back in to work, vanishing in the distance, like Mum, hurrying towards the exit. I speed up my pace.

Half an hour later, I am standing outside a door of a house in a pretty Georgian terrace. I knock firmly.

A girl answers. ‘Hi?’ she says, looking at me. She is mid-twenties, with long, curly, dark brown hair, a touch of red in it. She is holding a half-finished cereal bowl and a spoon.

‘Hi,’ I say, slightly out of breath, as I have run al the way from the Tube. ‘Hi. I’m Natasha. Is your – is your dad there?’

She looks me curiously up and down. And then she nods, and smiles. ‘Um – OK. Sure. Dad! ’ she bel ows with unexpected ferocity. ‘ Someone called Natasha here to see you! ’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘S’OK,’ she says. She smiles. ‘Yeah – so maybe see you later,’ and she drifts off with the cereal bowl, back down the long corridor.

Guy appears in the hal way. He looks bleary-eyed, grey-faced. He peers, as if to make sure it is me. ‘Natasha?’ he says, shaking his head.

‘When did you get back? What are you doing here?’ It’s not said unkindly.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ I say. I look steadily at him.

He meets my gaze. And swal ows. ‘OK. Fire away.’

‘Guy,’ I say. ‘Um—’

He stares, and his eyes are kind. ‘Go on, Natasha,’ he says. ‘Ask me.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Are – are you my dad?’

He gives a little jump, and it’s as if some tension within him has been released. He sighs.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, I am.’ And he smiles, slowly. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ve been more than useless. But you’re here. I’m so glad you’re here.’

I put my hand against the front door to steady myself. ‘Why don’t you come in?’ he says. ‘Come on.’

‘Oh,’ I say, thinking of the girl inside, of how tired I am, how I want my breakfast, my bed. ‘Oh . . . wel . . .’

‘Come on,’ he says again. ‘I’ve been waiting for this for a while, you know. You’re here now. Welcome.’

And he puts his arm round me and pul s me gently inside, and he shuts the door behind us and the rest of the world.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Guy’s basement kitchen is a mess. He ushers me downstairs and sits me at the big wooden kitchen table, which is covered in newspapers and empty coffee mugs. He pushes some papers helplessly out of the way and gestures towards the cooker.

‘Do you want some breakfast . . . ?’

I was starving, but now I have no appetite at al . ‘No, thanks. Can I have a coffee?’ I say.

‘Sure, sure.’ He rubs his hands together, as if pleased it’s going wel . He fil s up the kettle cautiously, and I stare at him.

This man is my father. This is my dad. Dad. Daddy. Father. Pa. I’ve never said that to anyone before. I used to practise it at night in my room at Bryant Court, especial y during the height of my Railway Children obsession. My daddy’s away, I’d told myself. He’l come back soon. Mum’s just protecting me, like Bobbie’s mum is. Night after night, but he never came, and then I grew out of pretending. I watch Guy as he shuffles round the kitchen, trying to slot everything into place.

He’s Cecily’s lover. He’s the Bowler Hat’s brother, for God’s sake – oh God, I think to myself. That means the Bowler Hat is my uncle and Octavia and Julius are my actual first cousins, not half distant relatives it didn’t matter that I didn’t like so much. And – he’s my dad. Not much of one so far, I have to say.

The room is spinning; my head hurts. I get up. ‘I’m sorry, I think I have to go,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I can do this right now.’

Guy turns, his face ful of alarm. ‘No!’ he says loudly. ‘You can’t go.’ He hears himself and then says, ‘Sorry. I mean, please, please don’t go.’

‘I didn’t have any idea . . .’ I say. I shake my head, stil standing there. To my surprise tears are flowing down my cheeks. I dash them away, crossly. ‘Sorry. It’s just a shock—’ I sink back into my chair.

‘I thought she’d have told you,’ Guy says. ‘That’s why I asked you yesterday, to come and see me. She promised she’d tel you. She real y didn’t?’ I shake my head, stifling a sob. He grits his teeth. ‘God, that woman – I’m sorry, I know she’s your mother, but real y.’

There’s a pause while I col ect myself. ‘Don’t be mean about Mum,’ I say. ‘Where were you, when she was bringing me up with no money, completely on her own?’

‘I didn’t know!’ Guy shouts suddenly, and he looks about ten years younger, not this tired, washed-out old man I don’t recognise from Cecily’s diary.

‘You didn’t know?’

‘Of course not, Natasha!’ He looks appal ed. ‘What do you think I am? I had no idea until she turned up completely out of the blue, two weeks ago, the day after I’d seen you at the shop. Out of the blue! First this diary arrives in the post, and then she arrives, no warning, nothing. At first I thought she’d brought another bloody diary for me to read, but it was this!’ He’s practical y shouting. ‘She tel s me this, and then she runs off to God knows where, and I’m left – I didn’t know what to do! Do you understand? Next time she comes I’m not letting her in, I tel you.’